Keeping the Blade
by ketamine.methanol
Summary: Red, red, red... A goth fic featuring Kenny and Stan as well. T for character death, and disturbing content.


**A/N: I don't feature the goths enough. I'm also on a writing roll lately, Idk. For those who couldn't figure it out on their own, Ethan=Curly Goth, Georgie=Kindergoth. And I'm pretty sure we all know that Stan is Raven.**

**Even I'm not sure if Stan is one of the goths in this or just a witness, so I'll leave it to your imagination I guess.**

**Enjoy.**

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One, two, three, four, five, ten, fifteen, twenty...

How we ever thought this kid was a fucking conformist is beyond me as my head reels and I feel nausea setting in. He might be even more of an individual then we are; I can't believe he's doing this. Hell, I can't believe Ethan convinced him to do it. Raven's already ran off to vomit. Georgie's eye is twitching and Henrietta actually left the alley we're all congregated in when the first slice was made, probably to go home and strip out of her garbs and give up the goth fashion forever.

I thought he was just the school hoodrat before, but now I think he's just fucking crazy.

The blood is actually spattering by this point and the tangy scent of copper is lingering so heavily in the air I feel my gag reflex twitch in the back of my throat, but I hold my composure as always.

He stops, body shaking as he slides down the wall, showing no signs of pain in his expression. More just hazy-eyed delirium as red pools at all of our feet.

Red, red, red... all from one Kenny McCormick's butchered wrist.

I can hear Stan Marsh dry-heaving down behind his garbage can and I force my eyes shut, lifting a gloved hand to wipe a bit of blood off of my cheekbone before looking up at Curly for any kind of reaction. He doesn't look too disturbed, but I can see the tension in his jaw. We know eachother well - maybe too well. This speaks for itself as we light our cigarettes in unison.

In truth, my skin's crawling. I swear, I felt every slice of the blade to the McCormick kid's arm. On any regular basis this wouldn't bother me, but the fact that this is a kid I've known in theory by association since I was a kid is making this a bit hard to stomach. Not to mention that he's doing this to himself - and for ten bucks. Seriously? Is he that broke? I stare down at my two-hundred dollar boots and refined clothing, and then turn to evaluate the pressed and collared jacket that Ethan's wearing and lift a hand, knocking the back of it against his hip. He snaps his eyes onto me and I press mine back before he rolls his eyes and nods slightly in Stan's direction. I shake my head and his jaw tenses again before he turns to go fetch him himself.

My eyes rest on the youngest of our small witness to suicide. Georgie's maybe... thirteen now. It's unsurprising that most of us are still here in this town after highschool. Still, it seems almost stupid that we are. Either way, he looks absolutely terrified. I lace a half-finger gloved hand into his hair and pull him close, his height still premature in contrast to the rest of us, especially Ethan, who's been a motherfucking giant since he was born, I'm pretty sure.

Our littlest nonconformist looks up at me though, as though trying to hide away his shock and fear as Kenny bleeds out, his eyes now deadened of any shine of life as the knife in his hand clinks to the charred gravel of the alleyway. I raise my eyebrows slowly, taking a long pull on my cigarette before exhaling. Georgie takes in a small breath before finally speaking, voice premature and crackly in his pubescence.

"I don't think I can do this anymore, Red."

I release my hand from his sweep of black hair, before twirling my cigarette between my fingers and watching the ashes float down to Kenny's blood, where they instantly absorb the fluid and sink beneath the stilling surface of dark scarlet-mahogany. Ethan returns to our side with Stan under our arm. Raven looks at Kenny in horror, speechless. His and Kyle Broflovski's two-liner died a long time ago in reference to Kenny's countless deaths. If Kyle Broflovski knew about this, there would be problems. I think all of us can trust eachother not to bring this up with anyone outside of this circle - even Kenny.

Ethan pulls out a ten dollar note and reaches forward, carefully sticking it into the front of Kenny's parka like he's a cheap hooker that we accidentally killed. Georgie's already jogging out of the alley with his hand over his mouth, and Stan's knees look too weak to move. Curly throws him over his shoulder and Kenny's body is left to reanimate later with the clicking of our boots and a trail of fading red footprints, and I can only hope he puts his money toward something better than his bloodstained jeans.


End file.
